


Good

by vertual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-The Final Problem, You know me I'm predictable, ends with fluff, starts with angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 23:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: It takes time, but they have a good thing going.





	Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is 99% the Discord's fault. The other 1% is me because I mentioned it in the first place. You know who you are, enablers.

If she had to describe it in one word, Molly would have called this thing they had… good. _Good_ seemed the right balance for the care they put into it, the patience and the time, after all of the misery they each had to go through to even get here. It didn’t need to be great and it certainly wasn’t bad. Slow, but then that was the entire point. _Good_ was good.

The first step it took for them to get to good was excruciating. That phone call, the terrible day that followed, and when he finally came round, his attempt to surrender the key she’d given him years ago. She made him come in and sit down and explain himself and felt the empathetic pain course through her while she watched him force himself through the story. The first step truly came when she asked him if he meant it the second time he said it. It felt more like the last step, when you’ve reached the top of the stairs but you think there’s still one left, and your foot falls through the air and your heart skips a beat. Maybe this was the landing, with more steps to take.

His eyes stayed locked forward for a long, long moment while he filtered the question. When he looked up at her standing in front of him, she didn’t see any realisation, any epiphany in them. He just looked tired. He continued talking, and she felt sick for him.

“I must have done,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands as if he might still see wood splinters there, before returning his piercing gaze to her face.

She simply nodded, allowing him to move forward in his story, knowing he had to finish it to feel any semblance of comfort at the fact that it was now behind him. Apparently nothing he could say would shock her anymore. She took it all in, filtered it, and watched him come to terms in his pauses and asides.

He was silent at the end, eyes closed, his elbows on his knees and his fingertips to his lips. She stepped forward, entering his space intuitively, and without opening his eyes he shifted to wrap his arms around her waist and press his face into her stomach. She placed one hand on his shoulder and let the other move through his hair in what she hoped was a soothing motion. She felt him take a shaking, heaving breath before he leaned back and looked up at her, awake and aware.

“I can’t do this, Molly.” His voice is steady but she can see the gears turning as he decodes his own thoughts. “Even if I want to try to. I’m not...”

“I know, Sherlock.” Her hand is still in his hair, so she repeats the movement of petting him. “I’m not either.”

“What now, then?”

He wasn’t only looking at her; he was looking _to_ her, for guidance, for her to help him… figure himself out, she supposed. It was more than she’d ever had to handle from him, but it didn’t frighten her. She ran her fingers through his hair again, and then came the idea.

The second step felt like a bound and a shuffle at the same time. They went their separate ways, creating a distance, each being allowed time to reflect, recuperate and repair. When their paths intersected, they remained amicable, checking in on each other’s progress before carrying on. This system segued more cleanly into the third step than either of them anticipated. As their paths crossed more, they began to put thought into their interactions, coordinating and organising. Their respective work lives connected the same as before, but now they had a goal to speak and share. They took stock of their duties as godparents and approached each task as a team. They observed each other and learned. By the fourth step they were well and truly spending personal time together.

The fourth step came one evening following a day of entertaining Rosamund. After returning her to her father, they decided to walk through the streets, enjoying the colourful sky as the sun set over the city. They walked in what Molly felt was a comfortable silence for some time before Sherlock pulled her out of the way of foot traffic with a frown.

“I don’t like it when you walk with your hands in your coat like that, it makes it impossible for me to take your hand.”

The words shot out of his mouth so quickly it took a few seconds for Molly to filter what he said. Her mouth popped open as she watched his cheeks turn pink. She looked down at her coat and at the bumps where her hands rested in her pockets and felt her nose crinkle. She always put her hands in her pockets or held the straps of her bag so they weren’t just flapping about beside her, and she thought it was a bonus point for allowing him his personal space. When she looked up to question him, his eyes were looking somewhere past her left arm.

“You want to hold my hand.” It wasn’t a question, but he nodded, still avoiding her gaze. “You could have asked.”

“Just did,” he mumbled.

“No, you said you don’t like me walking with my hands in my pockets. That’s not asking.”

“Molly, could I please hold your hand?”

The brightness in his eyes and the colour in his cheeks made Molly’s chest swell. By way of response, Molly removed a hand from her pocket and held it out for Sherlock to take gingerly, almost reverently, in his own. He beamed and gave her hand a squeeze before pulling her back out to join the rest of the pedestrians, and Molly had to admit, his hand was warmer than her pockets.

From there, she was determined to make him blush again. He went a little pink every time she took his hand after that and went almost red the time she decided to take his arm and lean on him instead, and she savoured it. He seemed to enjoy it as well, never shying away from the displays of affection she presented in her efforts to put the colour in his cheeks.

She was particularly fond of the shade she managed one summer afternoon when they had Rosie again.

The sun was warm on her arms as she sat in the grass with Rosamund on her crossed legs, tying the stems of clovers and small wildflowers together in delicate knots. Her goddaughter simply relaxed against her chest, basking in the cool air and the warm sun while giving Molly a full view of their companion lounging nearby. Sherlock lay on his long coat, shoes off and his jacket folded under his head as he relaxed under the sun. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and the twitching in his fingers suggested a melody was swimming through his head.

Excepting a group of teenagers playing football a short way away, the field was otherwise empty, the sounds of children in the nearby park floating on the swaying grass toward their little haven. Molly picked a nearby dandelion, blowing the fluff away before using the stem to make another link for some more pink and white clovers. Rosie cooed softly, reaching out briefly to touch Molly’s hands and leaning back once more.

The time passed peacefully until Molly called to Sherlock to present him with the gift. He shifted over to where she sat and Molly placed the small flower crown on top of his curls, prompting a delighted shriek from Rosie in her lap.

“That’s right, he _is_ handsome, isn’t he?” Molly murmured to their goddaughter, pressing a nibbling kiss to her cheek. Rosie continued to laugh happily, and when Molly looked up at Sherlock, he was failing miserably to hide his own smile, his bright pink cheeks betraying his pleasure at the compliment.

The fifth step turned the tables and she ended up being the one to blush like mad, because with all the affection Sherlock was getting, he had decided to return the gestures. He knew she thrived on the little kisses he’d place on her cheek or temple when they met up or parted ways, and he knew she was especially weakened by forehead kisses. They were little things that made her wiggle her toes in joy even when she felt the heat all the way in her shoulders. He did it even more when Rosie was around, because she adored seeing Molly’s expressive reaction. She knew she wouldn’t push it, but there were some times when Molly wanted to turn her face and steal the pecks right off his lips.

The sixth step turns out to be the last. She arrives at 221 Baker Street early on a Saturday afternoon, unlocking the front door with only a small amount of fuss, and brings her bundle upstairs to where he said he would be. Her knock on the main door is a formality and she nudges the door all the way open without being told to come in.

Sherlock is at the desk in front of his laptop when she enters, and when he sees her, he hops to his feet and makes his way to her. Without pausing, he takes the large and colourful bouquet from her hands to allow her to remove her shoes.

“Is Mrs. Hudson not home?” he asks, holding the flowers off to the side to watch Molly bounce out of her trainers.

“I didn’t check.”

“Then did you want me to give them to her?”

“What, the flowers?” Molly springs upward with a grin once she finally gets her second shoe off. “They’re not for Mrs. Hudson, they’re for you.”

She was never good at flowers, but the bright greens and yellows interspersed with blues and purples caught her eye immediately and she had to order the whole bouquet in the display. Sherlock blinks at her, and then at the bundle in his hands, and to her delight, he goes a beautiful shade of red that could rival a beet.

“Do you like them?”

His mouth opens and closes a couple times. “They’re…” He seems completely knocked off his trail, swallowing hard and clearing his throat before managing, “...good.”

“Just good?” she teases, stepping closer with a playful pout. “I saw them and thought of you right away, and you only think they’re–”

“I love you.”

Molly feels her own cheeks warm as her heart tries to leap out of her throat. No longer one to let him have the upper hand, though, she replies, “Yeah? I suppose that’s… good.”

He scoffs at that, but he can’t complain, because she has already cut him off with a kiss. Judging from the way his lips curl into a large smile against her own, she doesn’t think he will.


End file.
